


dragons of all ages

by Saraptor



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Dont copy to another site, Gen, Just a moment between moments basically, Not much here, callum is a cinnamon roll, what would happen if the owner of that one house was Inquisitor Lavellan: the fic, when you want to write but don't know what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraptor/pseuds/Saraptor
Summary: The rain pelted on Callum's upturned face, each drop cascading and rolling down the drain of his metaphysical hopes and dreams. He was mad and desperate and he'd dragged the one hope of world peace into the storm with him.Meanwhile, ex-Inquisitor Lavellan really wanted to know why a kid and a baby dragon were camped on his roof in the middle of a lightning storm.
Relationships: Callum & Zym, Inquisitor Lavellan & Callum
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	dragons of all ages

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know?? What if Lavellan met Callum, I guess!

Callum was so certain that the sky held his destiny. He thought if he reached high enough, forgetting all the consequences, he would find his special connection. Grand delusions had filled his head, upon spotting the lightning rod at the top of the coastal house. Himself, triumphant, the wind and rain lashed in his hands.

No longer would he have been Callum, the step-prince. He would have been Callum, the first human in known history to have a connection to a primal source. He would have been someone.

Instead, the wind tore his jacket mercilessly, biting right through the leathers and cloths, into his bones and settling with a deep chill. Shivers wracked his body. It took his every effort to stop his teeth from chattering from the cold. The elements were forgiving to no one, least of all a human upstart seeking an arcanum. Callum would have felt foolish, were his rational thought not drowned out by a general feeling of terror.

One moment, everything had cleared. The metal had pressed against his hand, cold and slick with water, and he could taste ozone in the air. Every second slammed into his heart, as though he was struck over and over. The lightning never came.

He pulled his hand back with a ragged gasp.

"I'm such an idiot," said Callum, hugging his arms to his stomach tightly. He could hardly bear to glance at the small creature curled into his side, let alone meet Zym's eyes. "What am I even doing out here?"

A soft croon from Zym coaxed a small smile out of Callum.

Callum blinked down at Zym, bubbly and cheerful.

Lightning struck.

Tea, Lavellan discovered, was one of the few great things Solas never seemed to understand. It could relax and invigorate and cleanse. Better still, it tasted good. He loved the fruity teas with exotic colors and strange names. There was nothing quite like starting out the day with a mug of warm tea.

Herbs poured out of pots hanging around his windows, filling the air with a mixture of aromas. There were a few flowers added in that didn't give much nutritional value, but looked pretty against the other plants. Dalish though he might have been, let it never be stated Lavellan was without a sense of aesthetic.

It was a quaint set up, so perfectly peaceful that Lavellan half-hoped the ground would open up and swallow him. After a lifetime of fighting and conflict, he wasn't ready to lay down his arms and surrender to the passage of time. There was life in his veins yet, a mission that was incomplete. He had one more friend to save.

Solas never made things easy.

A storm raged over the island. For all Lavellan knew, coddled by the generally uneventful weather of the island, it was Solas who brewed it up.

He drew a cloak around his shoulders, giving a shudder. It was doubtful that Solas would be so open about his arrival. The both of them had always been more about subtlety, sometimes to the chagrin of their (once-upon-a-time) companions.

The tea was just boiling when the lightning struck the rod atop his roof. It sent bits of his roof flying in every which direction.

A person-shaped figure went flying down his lawn, lying limp, and his heart flew into his throat. They lay half-obscured by fog, risen from the humidity. Sparks skittered across the ground, bright and moving with a life of their own.

Lavellan grabbed his staff off the wall and flung the door open, running out into the rain, drawing his hood over his face. He skidded to a halt next to the unmoving body, dropping to his knees.

It was a child, no older than thirteen or fourteen. His hair was plastered to pale skin, taking in great, shuddering breaths. He twitched spasmodically, fingers grasping for something out of reach. Lavellan pulled his hands away from his throat and cast a spell, scanning for any internal injuries. His shoulders sagged when he found none.

He slid an arm under the boy's shoulder blades, the other cradling his knees, and lifted him.

A fierce squawk stopped him from going any further than that, a tiny blue dragon, spitting sparks, standing directly in his way. Big green eyes drilled into him, tiny claws digging into the ground.

The dragon reared its head back.

And then sneezed violently. Sparks flew out of its nose.

Lavellan moved around the dragon, ignoring its attempts at nipping his cloak. It gave out fiercely tiny growls of protest. When it lunged to bite his ankle, he danced out of the way, angling himself sideways through the door to avoid smacking the boy's head on the doorframe.

"Calm yourself," he said, wedging the door open with the tip of his foot to allow the dragon entry. "The boy is injured. I want to help."

The dragon scurried around his feet, watching intently as Lavellan lay the boy down on the sofa in the living area. He cast a barrier over the boy's body, lacing healing magic in it, as he scanned for any internal injuries. The boy was remarkably untouched by the lightning's strike.

"Your friend is lucky," said Lavellan, smiling wryly down at the dragon.

It jumped on his lap and cooed, face inches from his own.

He pulled the boy's soaked boots and jacket off him, drawing a blanket, enchanted to smolder at a higher temperature, up to the boy's chin. It would dry him off in minutes and chase any lingering cold away. Once he was sure the boy wouldn't roll off the sofa or choke on his tongue, Lavellan climbed back to his feet, depositing the dragon against the boy's side.

The dragon immediately curled under the boy's arm, keeping ever-aware eyes trained on Lavellan.

Hidden somewhere in the back of Lavallen's impressive stock of exotic teas was an elfroot and embrium special that cured most diseases and injuries. It wasn't often he found a human child on his roof in a thunderstorm, so he figured the situation called for a small bit of indulgence.

The tea was a smoky green color, the embrium scent faint. Elfroot was a powerful herb, with an equally powerful smell. He pressed a single iced-over finger to the side of the mug to cool it. Then, he sat in on the low table with a platter of sliced bread and fruits.

Lavellan nudged the boy awake.

"OH, NO—ZYM—!"

The boy flew alertness, half tumbling out of the sofa, caught only by Lavellan. The dragon was less lucky, falling head over heels with a squeak.

"Deep breaths," said Lavellan. "You are safe here."

"Where—who—"

Lavellan held his arm down, giving the dragon—Zym, presumably—a stepping stool to land on the boy's chest. Zym took the ladder graciously and nudged his nose against the boy's.

"Oh, thank goodness," the boy groaned in relief. He wrapped his arms around Zym's body, burying his face in the pale blue scales. "I'm such an _idiot_. You could have been killed and it was all my fault—"

His voice strangled off.

"Where are we?"

Green eyes widened when he noticed (finally) the figure sitting at the foot of the sofa.

"Who are you?"

Then, something even worse crossed the boy's mind, his expression morphed into one of horror.

"Was that your house? I am so, _so_ sorry—I was trespassing—"

Lavellan raised a hand, pulling back his hood with a grin.

"It is no problem," he said. "Though, I warn you: the fall alone could have killed you, let alone the thunderstorm."

"I'm sorry—"

"As I said, it's of no consequence."

Lavellan pushed the platter closer to him.

"Eat up. The tea is a curative, it'll heal any unseen injuries."

As the boy sipped on the tea with a grateful murmur of " _Thanks_ ," Lavellan shuffled around the house, placing his staff back at the door, closing the remaining elfroot tea back in the cupboard. The boy never took his eyes off him.

No longer than two minutes had passed, before he got over his initial shyness and launched into questions. At first, they were fairly standard. Lavellan had no issue telling him the name of the island, the kind of plants he grew, and the unique metal from which he forged his staff. Eventually, the questions started to take a roundabout path toward a rather specific topic.

"I am an elf," he stated bluntly.

"I can see that," said the boy.

 _But_ , Lavellan waited.

"But," said the boy, sure enough, "you don't have horns. If you don't mind me asking. Did they fall off? Do elven horns do that? Is that an insensitive question? I'm sorry."

"I am… unlike the elves you know," said Lavellen, rubbing his finger along the deeply violet leaves of a flower that evolved from royal elfroot. The only resemblance, after so many years, was its color. "I never had horns, nor will I ever."

"There's so little we know about the elven culture," said the boy, sitting forward, forgetting his bread. "I have a friend—Rayla—who's a moonshadow elf, but she doesn't like to talk about her homeland much."

"You will find a lot of elves can be stubbornly secretive to people who aren't elves," said Lavellan, thinking of all the snobbish Dalish elves who had looked on him with contempt for leading a _human_ Inquisition. "They aren't all like that, but I'm afraid the world has not given elves reason to be a trusting lot."

"I'm sorry, I don't want to seem rude, but I've never seen an elf like you before."

Lavellan opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it. There was a streak of curiosity in the boy's eyes, shining bright and untainted by desire or pride. Ambition burned inside him—of that, Lavellan had no doubts—but it was nothing like the ambition of the past. No demons lurked behind the boy's eyes, no hidden darkness.

A pang of nostalgia struck Lavellan fast and hard, reminding him of innocent times. There was a period of life, so long ago that it was like the prologue to a prequel story, where he had been no one. He wondered if his eyes had shined that way, before ashes and blood clouded them, and time dulled them.

"I am… a relic," he said slowly. "Something come here to rest. I am very old."

The boy frowned.

"You don't look old."

Lavellan laughed, and the thousands of voices from the Well of Sorrows laughed with him in a symphony of regret.

"Looks can be deceiving."

"I get it!" The boy smacked his fist to his palm. "You're an illusionist. Like a moon mage? We met a moon mage awhile back. Gosh, feels like forever since we've seen Lujanne…"

"I am no illusionist," said Lavellan. "Simply very, very old—and, it seems, absolutely bereft of common decency. I have not introduced myself!"

He could almost hear the propriety-loving Madam de Fer raising from the dust of six thousand years ago to chastise him for his faltering manners.

"You may call me Lavellan," he said, bowing his head slightly.

The boy wriggled free of the blanket and maneuvered Zym into his arms.

"I'm Callum, and this is Azymondias. He's a—well, you can see. A baby dragon," he said, scratching the underside of the dragon's chin. "We call him Zym.

The dark blue cloak swished around Lavellan's kneels as he crouched to head level with the dragon, with Zym.

He saw with not his own eyes, but the ones conditioned by the Well and its machinations. Little Zym was no dragon like the beasts he had fought and killed in the Dragon Age, just as Lavellan was not an elf like the ones who thrived in magic in the modern age.

"I imagine much has happened," he said.

Callum blew out an exhilarated breath, said, "You have _no idea_ ," and proceeded to launch into what could only become an epic, some day in the future.

Lavellan felt the turning of ages in the boy and his dragon friend. Perhaps, it was time he turned the pages of his own story, too.


End file.
